


Stirring

by Broodyelves



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broodyelves/pseuds/Broodyelves
Summary: “Tell me, Reek. Do you still get a stirring of desire every now and again? Do thoughts of busty wenches still cross your mind? Or even, thoughts of me?” Squeezing the area between two fingers, he grinned contentedly as Reek squirmed at the touch. “Answer me honestly, Reek.”“And yet, now you’re in no position to see to your perversions yourself. Don’t worry, my poor Reek, I am nothing but merciful.”TW: non-con, references to mutilation/castration and surgery.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author note: I've read a few things that came across as slight misconceptions around castration even within a fantasy setting so I wanted to get something that fits as much into a kind of "making sense" place as possible. TW for non-con, abuse, mutilation. This was written in part as a cathartic process as an abuse survivor. I have avoided explicit depictions of mutilation - but with said explicit references to physical healing processes and complications. Please do not continue reading if you believe you could be triggered by any of this content.

The North was always hard-hit by winter, but the Dreadfort had such a command of the biting cold that Reek strained to understand the building’s character as anything but an extension of his Lord. Recently, the tendrils of Ramsay’s influence had began to snake into his perception of the world, of _his_ world, in which Ramsay was the centre. The wall he was shackled to did not protect him from the cold because his Lord willed it, he thought. That he would only become satisfactory to Ramsay, the pain he inflicted; the cold of the Dreadfort; the dull ache of his wounds; they would all let up. But they became _worse_ every day, until eventually the cold had become intense summer heat and the only thing masking the thick, sweet scent of decay was the stale scent of Reek’s body’s feeble attempt to sweat out his advancing fever.

“My, my,” a honeyed voice cut like a knife through his delirium, “Reek, you’ve made such a mess of yourself”. The words he was looking for escaped him, curdling his reply into a vague stammer of half-consciousness. A hand was at his temple, checking the other man’s temperature with a tenderness he had seldom experienced. Instinctively, Reek leaned into his Lord’s touch, only to feel the hand withdraw, cursively drawing down pass his bruised chest and cracked ribs to below his waist. His fever shattered like shards of broken glass by the sound of his screams. “Does it hurt? I don’t imagine losing one’s cock would be a pleasant experience, but at this rate you’ll likely die”, mused Ramsay with a contrived ambivalence that would have enraged Theon. But Reek was _Reek_. It rhymed with meek, _it_ _rhymed with_ … “Reek! I asked you a question.”

“Yes, milord.” Now shivering, the words escaping him were even harder to form. The pain had perforated all his senses like one of Ramsay’s maces into his skin; he could less cut through the noise of his own agony to hear Ramsay at all, let alone offer a reply.

“Yes, what, my sweet Reek?”  


“Yes, it hurts, it hurts, milord it-“ Reek’s sobs threatened to overfill the torture-chamber, which was already saturated with the stench of necrosis, sweat, sickness and old blood rusted like copper.  The sound was empty, resigned and disgusting and the comforting feeling of Ramsay’s cloak draping over his shoulders, swaddling him up and muffling his cries was barely enough to disguise it. “I know, my sweeting, I know. How would you like it if I made it stop?” The gentleness of his Lord’s voice dissipated to set Reek’s mind whirring with anxiety over how to answer.

“Yes, milord. Please make it stop.” “Well, since you asked so prettily”.

The bastard reached for a knife strewn among several of his devices, languidly dragging the blunted metal across the surface of the table. Drawing it past Reek’s throat to meet his gaze, he lunged forward, before halting to use the instrument to release the man from his binds. “I’ll send you to my Maester in the morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

True to his word, Reek found himself collected in the early hours of the morning. Cracks of sunlight beamed through his small window as if carrying the crisp bite of winter’s frost. He remembered being cold, the sticky feeling of the stone floor on his bare feet and the tangible change in the weight of the air as he was escorted from his chambers. He remembered drinking the milk of the poppy. The dosage he was given was enough to set Reek apart from himself, reality ceased to feel so linear, and for a second he was Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, and the half-familiar lap of the steely waters filling his mind lulled him to sleep.

Occasionally he would awaken into partial lucidity, to the feeling of bandages being unravelled or tightening; the light sting of alcohol on fresh wounds; or to a cold cloth dabbing and scraping at dried-on blood. Whether he was in pain or not, he was unsure. The medicine dulled all his senses and obscured his perception; he’d see flies forming swarms in the corners of the room in his peripheral vision and his heart would randomly palpitate as if he was fleeing for his life. The number of days that had passed was impossible to discern, even after the fog had began to lift from Reek’s mind. A familiar cloaked man entered his temporary chambers. Ramsay strode purposefully towards the other man, looking intently into Reek’s eyes with a pointed curiosity.

“I’ve had you fixed up nicely, Reek. I’ve saved your life. Now, what do you say?” His cold stare darkened as he glanced over Reek’s body. Purple bruises that had previously dotted the man’s body like spilled ink on wet parchment had faded and yellowed; some seemingly having disappeared entirely, much to his displeasure. His more severe wounds had been bandaged and stitched, and the smell of necrosed flesh that offended even Ramsay’s nose was no longer present.

“Thank you, milord”

“Did I not promise I would make it stop? Now, let me see you properly. Keep still, or I shall cut along those scars as if carving into a tender steak”. Lord Bolton’s face was uncomfortably close to Reek’s, and his hands traced every neatly stitched wound with gentle dexterity. “Look. Don’t these look so much better? And without all those ugly, dark bruises I barely recognised you,” Ramsay mused as he circled the dissipating yellow patches where angry welts had once been, causing Reek to shudder slightly, much to his amusement. “Reek,” he glowered, “I told you to look.”

With that instruction, Ramsay grabbed a handful of Reek’s hair and pulled downwards. “Aren’t you curious? About what you look like now I’ve had you all _cleaned up_?” Lord Bolton’s hands moved downwards beyond Reek’s torso and to his groin. A length of about an inch of Reek’s cock remained, where and edges of his incision site – if it could be called such a thing – had been cauterized, trimmed and tidied. “I have heard that most eunuchs of Westeros have no lustful desires at all – that their _assets_ are removed with hot tongs,” he mused, briefly touching his testicles and moving upwards towards his docked penis, causing a shameful moan to emit from Reek’s chapped lips.

“Tell me, Reek. Do you still get a _stirring_ of desire every now and again? Do thoughts of busty wenches still cross your mind? Or even, thoughts of _me_?” Squeezing the area between two fingers, he grinned contentedly as Reek squirmed at the touch. “Answer me honestly, Reek.”

“N-no, yes, I... they do, milord.”

“And yet, now you’re in no position to see to your perversions yourself. Don’t worry, my poor Reek, I am nothing but merciful.”


End file.
